


Fine Lines

by ladyofrosefire



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: **Clarke is one month underage.**Hate sex against a tree at the end of episode 2 because why the hell not.





	Fine Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to softgrungetae for beta reading

“Hey, princess!”

His voice is the last goddamn thing she wants to hear right now. She turns and crosses her arms. “I have a name.”

If he wants a fight, she’ll give him one. Thanks to him, there is a pile of wristbands lying on the ground by the fire. Her mother thinks half of them or more have dropped dead. It’s possible that they have already scrapped the plan to come down to earth. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes expansively. “Sure. Whatever. Want to tell me what that stunt was, earlier?”

She takes a step toward him, tipping her chin. “I was hungry, there was food. We ate. Do you have a problem with that?”

His jaw works. They’re far enough from the fire that she can only make out the shadow of his expression and the angles of his face. Even through the blaze of her anger, she wants to draw him. Her nails bite into her upper arms. 

“Yeah, I--”

Her eyebrows go up and, miraculously, he stops talking. 

Clarke takes another step into his space. “I saw you punch that kid. Really brave. I bet your sister thinks it’s--”

“Don’t talk about my sister.”

“Don’t talk about your sister? Okay.” She pokes him in the chest, hard. “You’re going to get us all killed, acting like this. Why did you save my life if you want the Ark to think everyone here’s dying? What the hell is wrong with you?”

When she goes to jab him again, Bellamy grabs her wrist. 

“Maybe I should have just dropped you, princess.” His voice rumbles from his chest. This close, she can practically feel it. 

“Maybe you should have.”

His hands are calloused and warm, and his fingers are strong. When he tugs, Clarke stumbles forward, catching herself with her other hand in the center of his chest, over the pounding beat of his heart. 

She stops right before she kisses him, her upper lip slightly curled, her teeth bared. Then her hand curls into a fist in his shirt and she steps back, pulling him with her. Her back collides with the rough bark of a tree. Bellamy crowds her, all broad shoulders and muscled arms caging her against the wide trunk. He’s still bending toward her, their mouths only a few inches apart. Neither one of them bridges the gap. 

He smells like blood and smoke and sweat. It should be disgusting. She should be pushing him away. Instead, he presses his thigh between her legs, digging the seam of her jeans into her cunt. She hates the word, but what the fuck else can she think when it’s Bellamy Blake grinding up against her, making her pant. 

Clarke’s head knocks against the tree. She wants to close her eyes, wants to let herself make some sound. She will not be the first. Her hand somehow remains steady as she slides frees it from his grasp and reaches down to palm him through his pants. His bitten-off groan feels like a victory. 

He grasps her hand again a moment later and pins it back against the tree. Then he pulls her shirt up with his other hand. It rucks up under her arms, pinned between her back and the bark. Then he tugs her bra down.

“Fuck.” He stares a moment before he meets her eyes again.

Clarke stares right back. She would like to say it’s only the chill making her nipples go tight and her skin prickle. Her bra pushes her breasts up. She’s seen people go a little slack-jawed for worse reasons. It’s another victory, but he evens the score when he ducks down and  _ bites _ . The shock and sting of it shoots straight from her nipple to her throbbing cunt. Clarke barely manages to cover her mouth in time to muffle her cry. The rest of the camp can’t be more than twenty feet away.

He only lingers a moment, and then he pulls away, she shivers at the sensation of cold air on wet skin. The rest of her is all frissons of heat. 

She pushes his jacket off his shoulders, and then reaches for his fly before she can talk herself out it. Bellamy undoes the button and zipper on her jeans in the same moment. It’s a clumsy tangle of hands, and then him shoving her pants down. She thinks about pushing him to his knees and getting a fistfull of those black curls. But. No. She has no plans to wait. She kicks her jeans about half way off and tugs him forward. 

“Impatient, princess?”

“Shut up.”

He smirks at her. “Gonna make me?”

So she tugs his boxers down and takes his cock in her hand. 

Bellamy’s breath punches out of him, and his eyes squeeze shut. A moment later, he has a hand on her hip tugging her forward, and the other pulling her underwear to one side. 

“Fucking soaked.” The head of his cock slips against her clit. “Does arguing with me turn you on?”

She wants to slap him. She wants to beg him to just fuck her already.

“You talk too much.”

“Could say the same thing about you.” 

Clarke braces her hands on his shoulders and jumps. Bellamy lifts her, presses her back against the tree, and lets her squeeze her thighs around his waist. Her underwear has slipped back. This time, when he pulls it out of his way, he rubs his fingers over her labia, spreads her open. She bites back a whine and hopes that he chalks up to arousal whatever blush the darkness doesn’t cover.  He has her cunt and her breasts on display and she has next to no leverage like this. The only thing to do is even the odds.

Her hands slides down to join his, fingers circling her clit before slipping lower. She sighs, bites her lip, and then grins when he curses. Then Clarke raises her hand to smear wet fingers across his lower lip. He’s biting at her fingers a moment later as he pushes inside her.

For all their earlier roughness, he does that slowly, makes her toes curl with it and her back arch. 

Bellamy groans against her neck. “Fuck, babe--”

Clarke bites him, just beneath his t-shirt, and whatever else he was going to say gets lost in a quickly stifled cry. It was only partly pained, so she feels justified in doing it again, a little higher. 

That gets him moving. He fucks her hard, knocking sounds free of her throat even as her shoulders scrape against the rough bark. When he mouths at her jaw, she grabs him by the hair and pulls him back. That gets her a pinch to one nipple. She cannot keep from keening, and he does it again, harder. 

Her other hand pushes up beneath his shirt, nails scraping over the hard plane of his abdomen and over the cut of his hipbones. She tightens her legs around his waist, urging him closer, deeper, and Bellamy obliges. 

“Fucking knew you’d be like this.”

She would ask when he’d had a chance to imagining fucking her if she thought she could open her mouth without crying out his name. 

He calls her ‘princess’, and Clarke finds herself clenching on his cock. It’s not just the rumble in his voice, no matter how much she wants to pretend otherwise. When he looks at her, she can tell he knows. He’ll know that the sound of it makes her wet even as it raises her hackles. She cannot decide which one of them owns that victory. 

Clarke’s nails dig into the back of his shoulder, and she’s no gentler about that than he’s been with her. When she comes, she claws down his back, holding his name back behind tightly closed lips. 

Bellamy starts to slow, although she cannot guess what has him being courteous now of all times. 

“C’mon.” She urges. “C’mon, c’mon--”

“Bossy.” 

The gravel in his voice makes a shiver run down her spine. She can feel the change in him-- less precision in the motion of his hips, more urgency. Bellamy comes with her teeth against his pulse and his cock pressed deep inside her. 

For a moment, they both remain perfectly still. Then Bellamy inhales and Clarke relaxes her legs. He sets her back on the ground. She fixes her underwear, ignoring that it’s going to get sticky, tucks her breasts back inside of her bra, and pulls her jeans back up. She misses Bellamy straightening his clothes. When she looks up, he’s just pulling his jacket back on. The motion makes him wince, and Clarke glances down at her hands. She’s pretty sure she has a little of his blood under her nails. 

Good. 

Clarke runs her hands over her hair, as if that will do any good, and then straightens her shirt. The back is fine, but the treebark rubbed her skin raw. She leans against it, anyway, trying to will her legs to stop shaking.

“We’re not talking about this.” 

He looks at her, his expression unreadable in the darkness. Then he shrugs. “Fine by me, princess.” 

Clarke watches him walk back to camp. 


End file.
